


Forget About the Take, Forget About the Give

by APgeeksout



Category: Banshee (TV)
Genre: Counter Sex, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e04 Bloodlines, F/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Hood takes Deputy Kelly home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget About the Take, Forget About the Give

**Author's Note:**

> Using Porn Battle XV Prompt Words: ache, understand, scars, soft
> 
> Title snagged from Brandi Carlile's "Hard Way Home"

He walks her to the front door, like this were the end of a date and not just another day with one or both of them leaving the Cadi beat to shit. She wonders what that might be like: normal people making plans for easy, simple fun.

He's standing on the step behind her, not touching, but near enough that she can feel the warmth of him at her back. If she leans into him, he'll steady her. It's not the Date Night Alma invites her to gossip about during slow afternoon shifts, but it's something. Something she's wanted for a while now. 

She opens the door and steps inside, turns to where he still stands, waiting for an invitation. “You have time for a drink?”

“If you're up for company.” 

Maybe she's more rattled, a little goofier, than she's admitted to herself, because she grins so hugely that it pulls at the fresh cut over her eyebrow right along with the one at the corner of her mouth. “Boss, you stopped being 'company' a little while back.” 

He steps up into the doorway, and she hooks her fingers into his belt and pulls him further into the trailer; he's more than strong enough to resist the tug, but lets her reel him in, the screen door slapping shut behind them. “But, come in and make me a drink anyway.”

She really does put him to work pouring drinks – a few inches of whiskey over ice – while she grabs a shower. She almost invites him to join her, get his hands (eyes, mouth) on her that much sooner, but she wants the space, too. Needs a separation between the rest of the day - coming to curled amid pebbles of shattered glass and the twisted carcass of the cruiser, choking on smoke and chemical fumes and terror, Littlestone's fingers smearing tacky blood across her face, the drive back into Banshee, stiffening up over the long miles, trying and failing to make her hands stop shaking - and the way she wants to come undone around him. Washing away the grime and trading her stiff, stained uniform for a washed-soft tee-shirt and boxers isn't quite enough to put it out of her head, but it's a start. 

He's standing in her kitchenette when she comes out of the bedroom, barefoot and broad-shouldered, one drink in his hand, another waiting for her on the little square of countertop beside him. It's a sight she could get used to easier than she knows is smart. 

He's looking out the window toward the pitiful remains of her house, and wearing the worried expression he gets when he doesn't realize he's being observed. She takes a couple of heavy steps to draw his attention, and watches him replace the frown with a look of welcome. 

“How're you feeling?” 

“Sore. Human-ish.” She crosses to the counter, takes the glass, and tips it up for a long, deep swallow. The whiskey burns the raw skin at the edges of her lips. “Nice work, barkeep,” she says. 

He chuckles. “Think I've got a future in it if this whole sheriff thing doesn't pan out?” 

She figures he's got a few contingency plans that come in ahead of 'bartender', but she doesn't say that. Doesn't say anything at all, just takes another sip, smoky and hot in the back of her throat. 

Quiet settles between them then, but it's comfortable, a silence neither of them is compelled to break with small talk. Often as she wonders about the things he's always so busy not saying, she's glad for tonight that he knows how to be quiet. Understands how to be in it with her. 

There is some tension in the hush, but only the good kind that comes from drawing out what's coming: making sure that he catches her watching his mouth as he nurses his own whiskey; appreciating the lazy, teasing curve of his smile in response; his hands bracketing her hips and raising her up when her own aching muscles fail to hitch her into a seat on the counter; his eyes tracing the lines of her bare legs. 

She drains her glass, sets it aside, and reaches out to snag a handful of his shirt, curling her fingers into the fabric and pulling him closer. He lets her guide him into the space between her parted knees. The counter evens out the difference in their height, leaves them eye-to-eye. 

"Hi." 

"Hi," she echoes, and reaches up to trace his lower lip and the cut he's wearing there. She tips forward to follow her fingers with a kiss. 

His hands return to her hips, fingertips edging under the hem of her shirt, calluses snagging at the soft skin above her waistband. His mouth leaves her own to trail along the line of her jaw, and though she's enjoying the hell out of the tease, suddenly there are too many layers between them. 

She breaks away from him long enough to pull the tee-shirt over her head, shower-damp hair falling to her shoulders, and tugs at his shirtfront until he takes her meaning and casts it aside with a deep, quiet laugh that goes straight to her cunt. 

"Better?" 

"Better," she agrees, running light fingers over lean muscle and the new and old bruises scattered over his skin. She hooks a leg around his thigh, nudging him closer again, his skin warm against her breasts and belly. 

He picks up where he left off, mouth hot at the base of her jaw, and she winds herself around him, the denim of his jeans rough on her bare legs, her fingers digging into his back, pressing him closer. 

He pushes her hair over her shoulder, exposing her neck, her shoulder. Her scar. 

She's spent years - all the time since Breece - covering, camouflaging, concealing the burn, but, though he's managed to hold on to most of his own secrets, he's already seen the parts of her that are ugly and hardened and don't feel as much as they used to. She doesn't shrink away when he presses his lips to the raised, uneven tissue. 

He follows the curve of her neck, and though the surface of the scar is less sensitive than everything around it, she feels the bite and burn of his beard against the tender skin at her collarbone. His hand shifts down her hip, fingers curving against her thigh and pushing beneath the thin cotton of her shorts. He moves his hand so fucking slowly to the inside of her thigh that she almost wants to guide it into place herself, but she forces herself to wait him out. 

She presses her mouth against the spot where his shoulder curves into his neck, grazing his skin with her teeth, idly thinking about adding another mark to his collection; at least this one he might have a little fun in getting. 

She stops thinking about much at all when his hand finally settles between her thighs. The angle and her shorts make it awkward, but she's already so wet – has been since she was in the shower, very deliberately not touching herself – that it doesn't matter much. 

He finds an approach that drags the pad of his thumb over her clit in a slow circle – the way he's already learned she needs it – and her hips rock upward, out of her control. Again again again, and her back arches, trapping his hand between them, and throwing her head backward. His free hand comes up to cup the back of her head, twisting in her hair and also protecting her from concussing herself on the cabinet behind her. She laughs – he's such a gentleman about getting her off two feet away from her coffeemaker – and it comes out low and uneven on her stuttering breath. 

He keeps drawing leisurely circles around her clit, taking her weight as she bucks and rocks against his touch, the muscles of her core tense and trembling. He mouths along her collarbone, moving to the hollow at the base of her throat, and she feels his lips curl into a satisfied smile against her skin as she tips over the edge, shuddering against him and giving up a series of wordless moans. 

He keeps his hand against her while she rides out the aftershocks, tipping her face into the crook of his neck, loose and content, kissing him soft and a little sloppy. After a few long moments she shifts against him, easing down from the countertop to stand on shaky legs. She loops an arm around his waist, even as her drops one over her shoulders, and they move companionably to the hallway that leads to her bedroom. 

She's not going to say “thank you” in so many words, but she'll make sure he gets the message loud and clear.


End file.
